The Case of the Empty Flat
by Communication Breakdown
Summary: In search of the elusive assassin of the Congressman and his wife, Sherlock finds himself and everyone he holds most dear thrown into a mystery which is more dangerous than they could have imagined. Established Johnlock ; sequal to Life in 221b.
1. Progress

PROGRESS

Sherlock strolled into Scotland Yard in a less than chipper mood. The gloom outside promised rain, John had a late night at the office, and Lestrade was wanting to keep him in all day if he could. Also, it had been two weeks since the death of Congressman Stewart and they still had absolutely nothing aside from the fact that their assassin was ex-military, based on the fact that he'd made the mistake of leaving behind a bullet casing and a footprint. (Of course from the size of the print Sherlock could deduce the man's height, leading foot and gait.) Either the shooter was getting sloppy, or he was doing it purposefully to throw them off, (which Sherlock doubted). But they had no idea what to suspect until they recieved further evidence, which seemed a long way off. The killer had gone quiet after the death of the Congressman.

Sherlock restrained the urge to roll his eyes at Donovan's glare when she greeted him at the door. He allowed her to lead him to Lestrade's office. They entered to find Lestrade hiding his face behind his left hand. Sherlock noted the absence of Lestrade's wedding ring. He'd finally gone with divorce, then. Donovan coughed and Lestrade looked up tiredly.

"Ah, Sherlock." He leaned forward and folded his hands on the desktop, nodding toward the chair in front of him. "Have a seat."

Sherlock did so respectfully, but also feeling rigid. He refused to relax till more evidence came to him. John hadn't enjoyed a lot of the tension, aside from when Sherlock insisted on relieving stress for the both of them. Then John was very considerate.

Donovan coughed again. Lestrade looked up at her.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah... My throat just hurts." She muttered.

"Bet your knees hurt as well." Sherlock mumbled, gazing at the spot where the framed photo of Lestrade's wife used to be.

Both of the officers stared at him.

"What?" Donovan demanded.

"What?" Sherlock glanced up at her, feigning innocence. Her expression told him everything he already knew and he smiled at her.

She made a sound of disgust and stormed out. The door shut softly behind her and Sherlock turned to meet Lestrade's look of disapproval. Sherlock shrugged, his expression turning blank. Lestrade shook his head and turned attention to the folder on his desk.

"So... We looked in on ex-soldiers with a size 10 shoe standing at 5'7''. We have a list." He flipped to said list and held the folder out to Sherlock, who took it carefully. "Any names seem familiar?"

Sherlock raised a brow as he looked it over. "No."

Lestrade shrugged. "Maybe take it home, show it to John? Maybe he'll recognize some one."

Sherlock nodded vaguely, trying to conceal the excited gleam in his eye at the thought, and slapped the folder shut. He pulled his expession back into a cool mask as he looked back up at Lestrade. "Yes. Maybe. What about the old woman?"

"Ms. Bingham is almost unreachable. She says she'll only speak to 'that odd detective bloke and his kind partner'. I can only assume she's talking about you and John."

Sherlock smirked. "You'd be assuming correctly."

"Yes, I thought so..." Lestrade dipped his head and glanced upward at Sherlock in a way that suggested he wanted to speak carefully. "How are you two any way?"

Sherlock's smirk almost grew into a grin, but he controlled it. Lestrade was one of the few people who knew about them and, although Sherlock did consider him a friend, his attempts at small talk were truly putiful. Lestrade had always been awkward at any conversations with Sherlock that weren't professional.

"We're splendid." Sherlock's voice dripped with exaggerated joy. "Why, just last night-"

"Ah ah ah ah ah!" Lestrade held up a finger. " I wasn't really wondering that much, Sherlock. Some things are better kept private, yes?"

Sherlock didn't hide his smile now. "Yes, alright."

"Alright." Lestrade dove back into the folder and flipped through it.

Things didn't get too interesting after that, but Sherlock was stuck there till 8:00.

Then his phone buzzed.

_Managed to get off early. When you coming home? _

_Sherlock smirked, typing quickly._

_Leaving the Yard now. Have dinner ready?_

_Sure. What do you want?_

_Surprise me._

With that, Sherlock hailed a cab.

John had just set dinner up on the coffee table and taken a seat on the couch when Sherlock came bounding in and threw himself down over John so that his head rested in John's lap. John chuckled and ran a hand through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock almost seemed to purr.

"Any progress?"

"None whatsoever. " Sherlock sighed. "I see you ordered from Angelo's. "

"Seemed like a good idea."

"Hmm."

"Do you even plan on eating tonight?"

"I'll have a plate."

"Want me to serve you up, then?"

"I'll serve myself, thank you. Just give me a moment."

John smirked and continually stroked the younger man's dark curls. This seemed to soothe Sherlock, who simply lay there with closed eyes. John's mind wandered for a while until he realized that Sherlock had yet to arise again. John looked down at his flat mate's serene features and thought for one incredulous moment that Sherlock had fallen asleep.

"Sherlock? "

"Hmm?"

"You tired?"

"Not even a little. " It should have been obvious to John by now how Sherlock could simply enjoy his company.

John smiled and leaned back. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he jumped up and turned so that he could look down at John. John stared up him with wide eyes, thinking to himself how he didn't know what could be happening but taking the brightness of his flat mate's own eyes into consideration.

"Sherlock?"

"I have something for you."

John's confusion was evident, and now mixed with surprise. His brows shot up in interest. "You do?"

"Yes. Serve us up, will you?" With that, Sherlock turned and strolled away. John shook his head and plated food for the pair of them. As he was starting to dig into a marinara, Sherlock was returning with a folder. The folder was then tossed onto the table in front of John and left there while Sherlock started eating, giving no explanation whatsoever.

John stared at it, then at Sherlock, who didn't seem to care to explain. John looked back at the folder, perplexed. He sighed, setting aside his plate and grabbing the folder. He flipped through it until he came to the list of names. He glanced over it with a frown.

Now Sherlock was eyeing him with an intensity that only meant he was on to something. John ignored him and reread the list a couple of times before shaking his head.

"Hmm."

"What?" Sherlock demanded quickly.

"I recognize a couple of these names."

Sherlock set down his plate and leaned over curiously. "Oh?"

"Yes... But all the ones I recognize have been dead for awhile now."

Now Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"Yeah. An explosion, on a rescue mission. Afghanistan. I was one of the few who made it out. But here, it says that more survived than I thought..."

Sherlock watched John carefully, saw a cloud of absent dread play across John's eyes. He almost regretted showing this to John now, but he had to know. If John's knowledge of these men could be helpful in any way pertaining to the case, he had to know.

"John."

There was a moment before John glanced over at him, his expression tired. "Yes?"

"I need you to tell me all you can. Please. And then we'll have no more of this."

John's eyes shone for a moment, and he forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Then he looked back down at the list. "All right. Hand me a highlighter."


	2. Tea From The Pot

John was awakened by a clattering in the kitchen. He shook his head and rubbed at his eyes, seeing that he'd fallen asleep on the couch. He was stilled by the realization that someone was in his kitchen. Wanting to be silent, he warily shifted so that he could peer over the back of the couch and into the next room. Sherlock was there, facing toward the sink, fiddling with something. It took John a moment to realize it was a tea pot.

_How sweet, _John thought. _He's making tea._

Not wanting to disturb the moment, John turned back around with a smirk and closed his eyes, feigning sleep. He heard Sherlock chuckle a moment later from the counter.

"I understand that me making tea is a rarity, but please, don't rob me of the pleasure of your presence."

Now John laughed, (and silently thanked God that most home invaders probably couldn't hear as well as Sherlock), and stood up to pace to the middle of the room and stretch. When he looked toward the kitchen, Sherlock's back was turned toward him. He'd never even looked John's way. John called from beside the coffee table, "The pleasure of my presence? Ha! Is someone feeling snippy?"

Sherlock turned toward John with a smile, then turned away again to put the pot on the stove. John smiled at Sherlock making tea the old fashioned way. Of course Sherlock knew John preferred his tea from the pot to the machine. Then John realized that this was Sherlock's thank-you to him for helping with the case.

They'd put together an impressive list of incredibly skilled, dangerous and supposedly dead ex-soldiers who more or less fit the description Sherlock had deduced. It had been a tiring process, leaving John's mind muddled and with no recollection of the time that had passed, the words that were said, (which he was fine with forgetting), or when he'd fallen asleep. He couldn't keep from yawning as he moved to rub his aching shoulder. In his peripheral vision, he saw the clock on the far wall. He looked toward it to see that it was two in the morning. He'd be leaving for work in four hours.

His sudden groan brought a Sherlock all but rushing to his side. The taller man peered down at John with alarm, but seemed almost afraid to touch him. "What is it, John?" It was a demanding question, not a gentle one.

John tried to muster up a pathetic look as he turned up toward Sherlock. "Work." He groaned.

Sherlock just frowned. "Then don't go." And he went back to the kitchen.

"I can't just skip Sherlock! I'm surprised I still work there after all! And doctors can't just take days off willy-nilly."

"I doubt you'll be needed." Sherlock replied curtly.

John turned wide eyes on him. "You are snippy, aren't you?"

No answer.

"Sherlock, what's up?"

Sherlock huffed and whirled around, storming toward John. Whatever John had been expecting, it wasn't Sherlock gently gripping John's hand in both of his own. John stared at their hands, dumbfounded. His hand was dwarfed by one of Sherlock's, and therefore enveloped by both of the detective's. He also noticed how perfectly manucured Sherlock's hands were compared to his own. It almost made him self-conscious, except that he knew how much time Sherlock spent home alone and how much emphasis he put on his own personal appearance and no one else's.

"John."

John felt his face flush at the sound of Sherlock's pained voice. He cast a slow, timid glance up at Sherlock's pinched face. Their eyes were locked on each other, and when Sherlock spoke, it seemed to physically hurt him. The sentences were slow and disjojnted, and some words had to be ground out, forced through Sherlock's teeth. Eloquence was failing utterly.

"I feel...badly. For making you help with that list, I mean. I didn't want to make you do that. And I would like for you to have nothing more to do with this case... To finally be able to put the war behind you." He was speaking carefully. Then, he spoke so quickly that John almost thought he hadn't heard correctly. "I'm sorry, John."

And he engulfed John a quick, tight hug and hurried back to the kitchen. John stood in a daze, then collected himself and followed Sherlock. He reached gingerly up to tap Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock turned and John ambushed him with a kiss. Sherlock was so shocked that it took him a moment to think to return the shorter man's embrace. The kiss lasted awhile, but Sherlock eventually made himself pull away and peer down curiously at John's amused expression.

"John?"

"Everything's fine, you git. But if you think I'm not helping with this case, you're wrong."

Sherlock smirked. "I'm never wrong, John. "

And he started to lean down for another kiss, but the pot started screaming and the moment was utterly ruined. Sherlock cast an exasprated glance skyward, and John chuckled.

"Thank you for making tea."

**AUTHOR'S NOTES-READ IF YOU CARE!**

**First off, postings will be few and far between because school has me busy and I am writing this on my phone. (Hope that explains if things look wonky, quickword is weird.) Also, sorry this one's kind of short, but a lot more chapters in this story will probably be fillers since John and Sherlock's relationship will probably be an important basis of conflict and hopefully this story will be twice as long as the first one.**

**Also, someone was kind enough to tell me that there is no Congress in England. Which I should have known... So Mr. Stewart will not be referred to as the Congressman anymore. Thank you to the person who was kind enough to comment, by the way. :)**

**While I know everything that's going to happen, I should really get into the habit of writing outlines. Hmm...**


	3. Tomorrow

John's gaze was fixed on the stain in Sherlock's bedroom carpet that morning. It was a dark stain- John could not tell the color due to the lack of lighting in the room. But it was an old stain. That much he could tell. And it was one of many. For such a prim and proper-looking fellow, Sherlock certainly knew how to make a mess and leave it.

Sherlock was sleeping beside him. He and John had been up doing...stuff, and had ended the night holding each other in bed. Sherlock had been awake when John drifted off, but he had apparently decided to get some sleep at some point, probably after a long while of watching John sleep. They'd also seemed to seperate at some point. John knew Sherlock had moved further toward the edge of the mattress due to the fact that he hated being crowded while he was trying to sleep- a strange quirk for a man who'd probably slept alone for his entire life.

But Sherlock had also probably taken John's aching shoulder into consideration. It had been hurting him because he'd fallen asleep on the couch. When he'd asked Sherlock, "Why didn't you move me to the bedroom?" , Sherlock seemed to be trying to hold down a blush.

"You just... looked so peaceful."

Now Sherlock was the one sleeping peacefully. John could hear him snoring lightly beside him, and it made him smile. _Of course, if I told him he snored, he'd never believe it. _John rolled his eyes. _No. Definitely not. _

John peered at the clock on the desk across from him. 5:30. Time to get up. He sighed and dragged himself off the bed, taking the sheet with him as a cover. He mused over the fact that his alarm was never used now, because Sherlock was the one who got him up. At 5:30 exactly. Because the sound of the alarm was absolutely awful.

John glanced at the sleeping Sherlock, and then eventually had to pry himself from the spot where he stood. Sherlock was ridiculously cute when he slept. The mass of dark hair was absolutely wild, and his features were so serene you almost wouldn't recognize him. Some subconscious part of Sherlock's brain must have sensed the extra space in the bed, because now he was stretched across the whole mattress. John felt his heart clench when he saw Sherlock's fingers grasp at the spot where he'd been lying.

John forced hinself to leave then, and allowed himself a five minute shower and some toast with jam before suiting up. As he adjusted his tie in the main room, his eyes fell on the folder with the list of possible assassins. Four out of those five men were truly dangerous- too dangerous for Sherlock to be messing with. And the fifth was too young...

John couldn't keep his mind from finishing the sentence: _Too young to die like that. _The thought sent images through his head that were so vivid that they seemed to be happening right in front of him. He heard the gunfire, all the shouting...and then the explosion. He watched the building go down with all those men trapped inside...

John shuddered and ran a hand over his face. He fiddled with his tie some more before setting out for a taxi, leaving about 15 minutes early, possibly more. He made a stop for some crap coffee before walking the rest of the way, remembering shortly thereafter that he hated walking in these streets. Even at this time, it was busy in the streets.

He took another sip of the much-hated coffee and trudged into the reception, returning Sarah's knowing smile and disappearing into his office.

It was going to be a long day.

Sherlock found that he could no longer ignore his phone ringing after it had been going on for about an hour. He glanced at the clock on his cell. 12:00 pm. He raised a brow and checked the calls. Five missed calls, all from Lestrade. He was about to redial when it started ringing again. Lestrade had beat him to it. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he answered.

"Yes?" He sighed.

"Sherlock?"

"No, it's bloody Santa Clause."

"Sherlock!"

"Obviously. What is it?"

"You done with that file yet? Because I will be needing it back ASAP."

Sherlock lightened up. "Oh! Right. Yes, I'll bring it soon."

"How about now?"

Sherlock groaned. "Why?"

"I need you here anyway."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "Fine. I have a list for you any way."

"A list?"

"Of suspects, Lestrade. Keep up."

"Right. Get over here then."

"I'll get a cab..." Sherlock hung up and sat on the couch, snatching a newspaper. "...in a little while."

Some three hours later, Lestrade rushed over to Sherlock, who had just come bounding into the Yard and already had Sally screeching at him.

"I've got it, Donovan." Lestrade mumbled as he was already leading Sherlock to his office.

As the door shut behind Lestrade, he heard Sherlock toss the folder onto his desktop. When he turned, Sherlock was already seated. Lestrade sighed and took his own seat, his eyes narrowing on the slip of paper that had been paperclipped to the cover of the folder. He plucked it from the clip and glanced over it. Five suspects. He never thought he'd see the day.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to start right away, then?"

"Tomorrow." Sherlock spoke plainly.

Lestrade looked up at him in surprise. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

Lestrade rubbed at his eyes. "We've lost enough time on this case already, Sherlock. Two weeks and barely a list of suspects."

"Tomorrow, Lestrade."

At Lestrade's tired glare, Sherlock tilted his head a bit and continued with, of all things:

"Patience is a virtue."

At this, Lestrade scoffed. "You're one to talk. Why are you so patient any way? Any other case, and we'd be done already... Not having this conversation."

Sherlock's left brow quirked up. He couldn't seem to articulate any excuse for his strange behavior, and then he just looked utterly confused. Finally, he nodded once and said, "Tomorrow."


	4. Children

"We have to be out tomorrow. Lestrade wants to get on this case immediately."

John had literally just walked into the flat. Now he turned wide eyes on Sherlock. "It's my day off tomorrow."

"I know."

It took Sherlock awhile to notice John staring at him. "Problem?"

John just sighed and left to dump the grocery bags on the counter. He was putting cans of things in the cupboard when he heard Sherlock shuffling around behind him. He sighed again, more audibly now, and turned. He tried not to frown at the sight of Sherlock putting away bread.

"I figured you'd like help." Sherlock said over his shoulder.

John lifted his eyebrows and went back to putting away groceries. All he said was, "Yeah", as he packed produce into the fridge.

Once that was over, he glanced at the clock. 10:00 p.m. He sighed. "Guess I should cook us something..."

"Absurd. I ordered Chinese. It's in the microwave."

"The microwave?"

"To keep it warm."

"Oh..." John smiled, trying not to laugh outright. "Well, thank you, Sherlock."

"No problem." The way Sherlock said this was more of an observation than a reply.

Now John laughed. _He's trying to stay out of trouble. _John beamed.

Some half hour later, they were cuddling on the couch watching crap telly, unwashed plates sitting on the table in front of them. Sherlock would occasionally yell at the people onscreen, and John would laugh. After some time though, they just sat there and held each other, both feeling somber.

"Sherlock?" John spoke up, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"This is nice."

"Mm."

"I hope we can be like this all the time."

Sherlock pressed a kiss into John's hair.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What are your thoughts on children?"

Sherlock pulled away and curled into the end of the couch, staring at John as if he meant Sherlock great harm. "Why?"

John was stunned, to say the least. "Well, I've just... I've always wanted children. And I'm 43 already, not much older than you..."

"Your point?"

"Are you telling me you don't want them, then?"

Sherlock laughed nervously. "Them?"

John nodded tiredly. "Yeah, them."

"John, why would you look at me and think, 'Oh, this man should be a father!' "

"Sherlock..."

"No, really. What could possibly make you think that's a good idea?"

"You don't need to yell."

"I'm not yelling!"

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's expression of terror and panic. "Right..."

"Why do you want kids any way?! You've already got me!"

But John was already getting up and leaving.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm sleeping upstairs tonight." John's voice dragged as he climbed the steps.

"What? Why?!"

He heard the door close upstairs. He sat there for a moment, in shock.

"John?"


End file.
